


And Think of England

by cheese



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Frottage, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:37:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheese/pseuds/cheese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1962. Trying to escape Hollywood and its new-found love of religious epics and all things Disney by returning to London, Arthur finds that sometimes the thing you're looking for is where you least expect it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Think of England

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 Merlin Tournament of Champions, part of Team Historical AU for prompt #62, A Blessing in Disguise.
> 
> Huge thanks to paragraphs for the beta.

After yet another argument with his father and Arthur’s insistence that no, he wasn’t going back to America and that yes, he would stay in London working with the smaller studios rather than have his creativity stifled by the politics of Hollywood – the booming animation industry, the historical epics, the religious epics, and the focus on so-called family values – Arthur was done. Apart from the propaganda and documentaries, which Arthur had no interest in, the industry felt like a straitjacket and Arthur had to get out. He was practically shaking with rage, making his way down Firth Street, pointedly avoiding any of the ladies he passed on his way.

He ducked into the nearest café, a place called The Book Shop, when his irritation had finally given way to the winter cold creeping into his extremities. The place wasn’t packed, thankfully, shelves of old tomes lining the walls, with mismatched decor of things one might find in their grandma's house. Arthur grabbed a table to the back for himself where he could read his newspaper and look over any of his paperwork in relative peace. Unless you counted Vera Lynn’s soft crooning from the record player, of course. Though, counting his blessings, Arthur was glad that at least it wasn't all-Elvis-all-the-time, like he'd grown accustomed to back in the States. By this time Arthur was sure that he most definitely _could_ help falling in love.

Arthur pulled off his jacket and rifled through the pockets for his cigarettes, lighting one just as a man approached his table. He took a drag in favour of acknowledging him, letting the smoke fill his lungs, already easing his nerves.

"What can I get for you?" the man – waiter, apparently – asked.

When Arthur finally looked up, cigarette perched on the edge of the ashtray, he may have made a choked sound, easily played off by the smoke of his cigarette. The waiter wasn't the type he'd have normally found attractive, not the type he ended up taking back to his hotel room on his "business trips" to New York City. He was probably around Arthur’s age, the working actor type from the way he carried himself – tousled hair just this side of too long, a beard that was long enough to give him a roguish charm, plaid shirt unbuttoned to reveal the hint of chest hair around some sort of moon necklace. A complete contrast with Arthur’s own suit and tie ensemble. When the waiter raised his eyebrow, looking down with a smirk, Arthur almost rolled his eyes, but his need for coffee was too strong.

"Just an espresso, thank you."

"You got it," the waiter said, turning on his heel and practically sauntering over to the counter to relay the order to an older man with a beard that reminded Arthur of Santa Claus. Or Moses, if _Ten Commandments_ was to be believed. 

No room for nostalgia or bitterness, Arthur got down to work, re-learning the intricacies of a language he knew, but of a country he hadn’t seen in years. Every once in a while, the drawl of his waiter would come through, above the music and the generic sounds of hushed conversations around him. Arthur looked up from time to time to see the man shamelessly grinning and flirting with all the clientele in the café, most of whom seemed to be the industry types, judging by the stuffy older men in suits and the young women unsuccessfully trying not to be too obvious with their too-loud giggles and pointed arm grazes.

Apparently things here weren’t that different from Hollywood. There had to be something else.

***

"Want a refill? Maybe some sustenance? Looks like important work you’ve got there."

The voice startled Arthur out of his notes and thoughts, and though Arthur hated being interrupted, he had to admit, he was starving.

"Oh, yes, that would be swell. What do you recommend?" 

"Old Geoffrey’s got a great big pot of his world-famous lamb stew on the burner." 

"World famous?" Arthur asked sceptically.

"Well, as far as his world goes." The waiter made a gesture to encompass the establishment, or maybe the area, big grin on his face, a genuine one, unlike the greeting he’d offered initially.

In spite of himself, Arthur smiled back.

"Well then I better get a bowl before it’s all gone. And another espresso?" Arthur pointed to the empty cup on the table.

"Coming right up." The waiter grinned, grabbing the cup and saucer as he went to tell ‘Old Man Geoffrey’ Arthur’s order.

His walk seemed less of a saunter now and Arthur couldn’t help but enjoy the way the jeans he wore hugged the man’s muscular legs as he strode over to the counter, and even more when he bent over it, leaning on his elbows.

His ass was fantastic.

Arthur realized he was staring a second too late, only to be met with a knowing grin and a wink from the waiter. He looked down, feeling his cheeks flush, trying to will his eyes to focus on the words in front of them. He lit another cigarette and made attempts at making scribbles on a page of scrap paper, some movie deal that didn't go through, perched on a stack of information about studios in the London area. Hopefully Arthur's new home base. 

The smell hit his nostrils before the waiter appeared by his side, a delicious savoury smell of home-made stew, the various spices spreading through Arthur's nostrils, making his mouth water. Arthur hadn't realized he'd missed this, but it somehow felt just like home. Or maybe he was just exceptionally hungry. 

"Better make some room there," the waiter said, grinning, the soup in one hand, a saucer with another cup of espresso the other. 

Arthur put out his cigarette and shuffled the papers over to one side of the table. The waiter leaned over him to place the dishes down, and Arthur was sure he didn't have to be so close but he appreciated it either way, the distinct smell of a bit of sweat from hours on his feet, the smoke that inundated the air of the café, and a little bit of ground coffee. 

A pointed cough got Arthur out of his thoughts and he looked up, blushing he was sure.

"Thank you, this is great." Arthur forewent the coffee in favour of the gorgeous mixture of vegetables and fresh meat, not minding that it burnt his tongue because the flavours were out of this world. Though the vegetables were what he'd expected, the old world fare of potatoes, carrots and other roots, the herbs and spices, hints of paprika and marjoram, made this something else, a warmth that Arthur was sure someone less pragmatic would describe as a bowlful of love.

"Let me know if there's anything else you need," the waiter said, placing his hand on Arthur's shoulder and letting it linger there long enough for Arthur to look up and have zero doubts about the intention behind the words.

Arthur decided to nod in response, focusing on the stew instead, not trusting himself to say anything that would not embarrass him.

***

Arthur practically inhaled the stew and the espresso after it, feeling much better and aware, going back to the papers. And without the cold chilling his bones, doubts began to creep back in. He was suddenly unsure of his decision, mind racing back to the security of working with his father, something he knew, something safe.

He rubbed his face with his hand trying to will the doubts away and as if by magic, the waiter appeared by his side again, bending down to pick up the empty dishes.

"What's the verdict, then? World-famous enough for a world-traveller?" 

"Oh, definitely, send my compliments to the chef. It was exactly what I needed." 

"I'm glad," the waiter said, lingering still, so Arthur looked up at him. "Say, your accent, I can't seem to place it, I was just-"

"California," Arthur replied, still hating small talk. "But I was raised in London, probably an odd hybrid of the two, I guess."

"Ah, an expat, returning to home soil for any particular reason, or just visiting before returning to the land of milk and honey and the great American Dream?" 

Arthur scoffed at that, hating so much the very idea of the American Dream that so many aspired to reach, to portray, to exploit, and so few who reached that ideal. And equally hating himself for having lived it and taken so much of it for granted.

"Definitely here to stay. I think I have had more than enough of the American Dream." He started spreading out the papers on the table again, a mindless gesture, trying to end the conversation, feeling out of his depth away from the constraints of business talks involving deals and numbers. 

"Never heard anyone be that jaded after living the life before, me," the waiter said, cups and bowls balanced in the crook of his elbow. When Arthur didn't reply, he continued, "I'm Gwaine." He extended his free hand towards Arthur.

"Arthur." Arthur looked up at Gwaine and shook his hand, the strong grip around his own a welcome pressure. His hand was wrapped around skin softer than he'd expected, held firmly in place, as if with intent. He was met once again with a blinding grin of someone who didn't have a care in the world. Arthur envied him.

"So what is it you're running from, Arthur?" Gwaine asked, their hands still joined together.

Arthur pulled his hand away then, suddenly feeling too-close-for-comfort with this complete stranger, the heat of Gwaine's touch overwhelming and smothering in the moment, but his hand left feeling all too cold with it gone. 

"Hollywood," Arthur replied and lit up another cigarette, going back to the pages in front of him, struck by inspiration, looking for the information sheets he'd gotten on the studios in the area.

"Aw, baby, must have been tough, being rich, blond and pretty in Hollywood of all places," Gwaine said from much closer, leaning over Arthur's shoulder to look at the table, his breath ghosting over Arthur's ear, tickling, too close.

"I'm not your baby, and you know absolutely nothing about me, so why don't you just go do your job instead of bothering a paying customer," Arthur snapped.

When Gwaine left without a word. Arthur no longer felt the sense of calm and fullness from before, of being ready to work. Not even the cigarette in his hand eased his nerves.

***

After roughly a half hour spent looking at the list of names in front of him, but not really _seeing_ , making any connections or progress, Arthur decided he needed another break. He stretched, cracking his neck and made a point to look around the café for Gwaine. There were many more people there now, as afternoon turned to evening and everyone must have gotten out of work.

Arthur knew he'd acted like a jerk and thought an apology was probably in order, as much as he ever hated to admit he was wrong. Gwaine had been nothing but nice and probably had no idea how many nerves he'd hit with his comment. Spoke miles of Arthur's inability to hold a conversation outside the constraints of contracts and business suits, and Arthur tried not to let his thoughts go back to Uther in that moment. No sense in making himself more agitated.

When he couldn't find Gwaine in the café, he decided to ask Geoffrey about him and was pointed to a small doorway in the back. He asked Geoffrey to keep an eye on his things and took the grimace and nod as a yes. Arthur approached the door slowly, knocking on the frame.

"Gwaine?" 

He peered into the small room, a storage space filled with cleaning supplies, cups, plates, table cloths, and Gwaine, bent over in the corner, rummaging in a box. 

"Gwaine?" Arthur tried again and Gwaine straightened up and turned to face him, the easy grin from earlier nowhere in sight.

He folded his arms in front of himself, body language obviously hostile.

"Is there something you wanted? I _was_ trying to get some work done and do my best not to aggravate any paying customers." 

Arthur winced, his own harsh words thrown back in his face. He ran his hand over the back of his neck nervously, feeling so naked under Gwaine's scrutinizing gaze. 

"Look. I had no right to speak to you that way. It was completely inappropriate. I just wanted to apologise. So. I'm sorry." 

When Gwaine didn't move, Arthur nodded at him and looked down at his shoes. They needed to be shined again, he thought, but he knew when he was being dismissed. Years of living with Uther made sure of that. He turned to leave only to be stopped by a strong hand on his shoulder, turning him and pushing until his back hit the wall next to a shelf full of napkins.

Gwaine's body was almost pressed flush up against his and Gwaine reached his arm out to shut the door to the storage room, the only light coming from a single lightbulb hanging low from the ceiling in the middle of the small space.

"What are y-" Arthur started but Gwaine put his hand over Arthur's mouth, effectively stopping him from speaking. 

Arthur's heart was racing a mile a minute, not only because of the first thoughts racing through his mind, the paranoid 'he's going to kill me' but also because it had been far too long since he felt the press of a strong body against his, one that presented a challenge instead of giving Arthur whatever he wanted because he could be their big break. But what if Gwaine was just like that-

Gwaine's voice broke through Arthur's running monologue. "Don't talk, baby,"

Arthur made a noise of protest at the familiar nickname but Gwaine pressed his hand over Arthur's mouth harder and moved his face even closer, their noses practically touching. Arthur could feel himself getting aroused by his closeness, but Gwaine obviously didn't notice or didn't mind as he moved his nose across Arthur's cheek to his ear.

"It's become rather clear that talking is not going to get us very far with you this stressed, Princess, so let me do this and then I'll let your pretty mouth run however it wants to. Hm?"

He pulled back to look Arthur in the eye, a hint of teasing obvious, but enough sobriety that Arthur knew this was an out if he wanted. He could pull Gwaine's hand away from his mouth and walk out now, not having any more ideas on what to do with work, but also sexually frustrated and humiliated.

Arthur nodded and let his body relax. Gwaine dropped his hand, replacing it with his lips instead; an insistent press holding nothing back, leaving Arthur breathless and yearning. Gwaine tasted of cigarettes, coffee, and just a hint of smugness Arthur couldn't resist, when his tongue slid past Arthur's lips. Arthur's hands flew to clutch at Gwaine's shoulders, his back, to pull him closer, touching practically head-to-toe. Arthur could feel Gwaine's cock, hard, pressed up against his hip and he thrust up against Gwaine, needing more.

Gwaine put his hands on Arthur's hips, under his suit jacket, fingers digging just above the belt, tugging at his shirt, marking, claiming. He slid a thigh between Arthur's legs and leaned in, rutting against Arthur's straining erection. Arthur moaned into the kiss, turning it into more of a rubbing of lips against skin, wet, leaving trails across their cheeks, chins, to mouthing at each other's necks without purpose as Arthur slid his hands down Gwaine's flannel shirt, spread tight across his muscled back to the ass he'd been ogling since he first saw it. It was as good under Arthur’s hands as he'd imagined; firm muscle he could dig his fingers into, to pull Gwaine closer, to grind against him harder and harder.

Arthur was panting, head thrown back, and Gwaine gave as good as he got. He rocked back against Arthur, their cocks just missing each other in their manic grind, a shock to Arthur's system every time their lack of finesse made them bump together, needing so much more, but being too far gone to stop now. 

Arthur tightened his thighs around Gwaine's leg between his and began to grind with more purpose as he could feel his orgasm slowly building, in an embarrassing show of quickness he hadn't seen himself exhibit since he was a teenager. He and Gwaine practically rode each other's thighs, the sound of silk grinding against denim the only sound coming out of this room, apart from their harsh breaths and broken-off grunts. With his head so close to the door, Arthur thought he could hear The Beatles singing about Lucy, but he couldn't be sure, in his own lust haze.

Gwaine's hands moved from Arthur's hips to his arms, pressing his arms up against the wall, grip like a vice. Arthur tried shoving them away, but he couldn't and he stopped struggling, letting Gwaine be the force driving him to his orgasm, taking over his entire body without removing an inch of clothing from either of them. A fact which suddenly made Arthur sad, wanting to see everything - Gwaine's naked torso, the shape of his nipples, any scars or birthmarks. 

It was far too late for that as Gwaine's thrusts against Arthur got harder and harder, losing rhythm, his thigh pressed up against Arthur in an almost painful way that made Arthur lose his mind, unsure if he wanted more or less. Arthur struggled against Gwaine's grip, needing to feel, and touch. But Gwaine was relentless, licking along his neck and sucking on his ear lobe, letting Arthur have none of the control. 

Arthur thrust up against Gwaine harder and ground his cock more, more, feeling Gwaine's legs starting to tremble, thighs entwined together. Their thrusts lost any semblance of rhythm, especially with Arthur having only Gwaine there to keep him from collapsing.

Gwaine's mouthing along Arthur's neck suddenly turned to a bite and with a few harsh movements of his hips and his fingers digging into Arthur's forearms through his jacket, he shuddered. Arthur could feel the wet spot forming on the thigh of his tailor-made suit and that, along with the pain from the bite and Gwaine's strong hold made Arthur grind up only a couple more times before he moaned out, letting himself go, coming. 

He was glad, at that moment, to be held up by Gwaine, his knees growing weak under him. Gwaine detached his mouth from Arthur's neck and moved it along Arthur's overheated skin to his mouth, kissing Arthur once more. This kiss didn't have the frantic quality of the first and Arthur moved his legs apart a bit, giving Gwaine space to move back. 

They both groaned when Gwaine stepped back slightly and released his grip on Arthur's arms, twining their fingers together in a stupidly-tender gesture Arthur wanted to erase, wanted to take away from this perfect stranger, but _couldn't_. He closed his eyes and let the wall keep holding him up, enjoying the unexpected closeness and trying not to focus on the stickiness drying in his pants.

Gwaine pulled away from Arthur, few final pecks to his lips and Arthur didn't want to open his eyes, unsure of what all this meant and not wanting to let his thoughts overwhelm him. Not yet. 

"Mmm, knew you'd be so much better when you weren't talking, baby," Gwaine said, playfully thrusting up against Arthur and Arthur had to open his eyes then, frowning at Gwaine, about to retort but Gwaine smiled at him. Not the cheeky grin from earlier, but a smaller, kinder version.

"You're a bit of a mess,” Arthur said. 

"Didn't hear you complaining earlier." 

Arthur wanted to retort, but Gwaine was right so he disentangled his hands away from Gwaine's instead, trying to straighten himself out.

"Look. Geoffrey should be closing soon. Why don't you wait for me, I live less than a block away. Could let you crash, borrow some clothes..." Gwaine gestured at Arthur's sticky crotch, then looked away, the closest thing to timid Arthur had seen of him. "Unless you know. You have somewhere you need to be."

"I-" Arthur thought of the hotel he'd booked, his single suitcase of belongings he'd deemed important enough to bring over. "Yeah, okay."

Gwaine grinned and kissed Arthur again, moving around him to open the door, completely unfazed by the stain on his crotch.

"Oh, and then we can talk business. I know a few people over at Pinewood Studios looking for a fresh-faced producer. Think you'd fit the bill, baby."

"Wha-" Arthur grabbed Gwaine's arm to stop him. "How did you know? What do you want?" 

Panic began to overwhelm him suddenly, feeling cheated and betrayed and wishing he hadn't let himself go and be so reckless. 

Gwaine's voice interrupted his thoughts, "Hey. You had your papers out all afternoon and I saw a few things, that's all. I have a couple of friends, great gals, really, trying to do something about the film industry. A little bit of revolution, they say. Thought you might be interested. That is if you don't already have others lining up to hire you." 

"Oh." 

"'m not just a pretty face." Gwaine was back to grinning again. "So, what do you say?"

Arthur looked out at the emptying café, at his table full of papers that had given him nothing all afternoon and back at Gwaine, who was offering him the chance he came here to look for. 

"Yeah, okay."

They walked out of the room together, and Arthur shoved at Gwaine when he gave Geoffrey a thumbs-up. Arthur sat down to put his things away,Gwaine puttered around him, clearing down emptying tables, shooting him grins constantly. Arthur lit up another cigarette and couldn't help but smile around it, then exhale perfect circles of smoke into the air, just as the tinny sounds of The Shadows' "Wonderful Land" came through the speakers. In that moment, he knew for sure that he'd definitely made the right decision.


End file.
